


Victory on Ice

by Rii



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Age Swap, Denial of Feelings, Engagement, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Pining, Role Reversal, Subtext, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 21:38:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9403913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rii/pseuds/Rii
Summary: At twenty-seven years old, Yuuri Katsuki has had a pretty good run, competitively, and he chooses to retire.  But a few months later, he finds the twenty-two-year-old Viktor Nikiforov standing naked in his family's hot spring, begging to be his student.   (AU - Viktor and Yuuri swap ages and roles in the story, but remain the same, personality-wise.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by [the following art/tweet](https://twitter.com/butleronduty/status/820970532287844352) courtesy of [@butleronduty](https://twitter.com/butleronduty)! Thanks for the brain food!

“With the conclusion of this competitive season, I announce my retirement.”

There were mutters of dismay and disappointment underneath the shutter-click of the cameras.  Only a few, however, and Yuuri was anticipating them to begin with.

(Besides, if he had been a more impressive skater, there would have been more outrage.)

(Nobody was trying to stop him, after all.)

There was a question asked of where he was going, what he was doing, if he was truly retiring.  “I plan on returning to my hometown in Japan and helping my parents with their inn, for the time being,” he replied.  “I’ll see where I go from there.”

No questions on why - why now, why this competition - but he gave an answer anyways.  “I’ve had a wonderful career, and am grateful for all the support I’ve received across the years,” Yuuri told them.  “I believe I’ve reached the point where I can no longer perform at my best, and now I want to see what the next generation of skaters will accomplish.”

(He had placed sixth, in his final competition.  Sixth of six.  The bottom of the barrel.)

(To struggle any further, to embarrass his coach, his supporters, his country - well, he wasn’t that pathetic.)

Yuuri Katsuki was twenty-seven years old, and, overall, he had no regrets over retiring.

(Feeling only that he should have done better with the time his body had given him.)

\--

He had an encounter with the future at the airport, in the days following.

It sounded like someone calling his name, at first, but the delusion of want lasted only for a moment.

Two young men were passing by, in the white-red-blue of Russian uniform jackets.  One gold, one silver - well, that explained the name confusion, certainly.

The golden one was Yuri Plisetsky.  And the silver, ah, that was Viktor Nikiforov.  He’d taken the gold at the Grand Prix, that year, like he had at so many other competitions previous. 

He was exactly the sort of person Yuuri thought of, when he thought of the future.  Not too young so as to be unpolished, but at twenty-two, he was far from the end of his career.  Nor the height of it, at the rate he was going.

Beyond his skill, Viktor was blessed with a remarkable magnetism that made it all but impossible _not_ to focus on him in any given situation.  His hair, elbow-length and gleaming like mercury, certainly helped with this.  Yuuri felt the focus of his eyes soften at the sight of him, passing swiftly by at the terminal; Viktor’s own eyes and words were focused on the Yuri beside him.

Until he turned around, and saw Yuuri looking at him.  And he smiled.

“Photo with me, before you go?” he said, in English.  He had a hand extended.

The awkward chuckle that resulted made Yuuri’s face wrinkle and stiffen, breaking Viktor’s charm.  “Sure, okay,” he replied.  Least he could do.

They shared the space of a selfie for a few moments, and a wave goodbye, and nothing more.

\--

Some months later, Viktor had his hand extended again.

Only, this time, he was naked, and standing in his family’s hot spring.

“Please take me on as your student!”

Viktor made the request sound like a command.

Yuuri stammered that Viktor had to put some clothes on before they discussed anything further.

\--

The way that Viktor explained it, Yuuri had given him no choice but to drop everything and leave Russia straightaway for Hasetsu.

“It was that video I saw that convinced me,” he finally said, after his second katsudon that evening.  “Your choreography for my routine.  Amazing!”

Ah.  _That_ video.  He’d just been skating for fun, after hours at Yuko’s place, letting some ideas work themselves out to some music, over the framework of an existing routine.  Nothing out of the ordinary for him.  Something he did a lot, those days, when he needed a break from work at the inn.

This just happened to be one of Viktor’s new routines, a soulful number over something sweeping and Italian.  And it just so happened that Yuko’s girls had recorded him and put the footage online.  Which meant - somehow? - that Viktor was now here, asking these things of him.

“I want you to coach me and help me choreograph this season’s routines,” Viktor continued.  “You’re just the kind of ‘surprising’ that I think I need.”

“I’m - flattered, really, but I don’t think I’d be much good as a coach,” Yuuri replied.  “I’ve never been as skilled as you are, even at my prime.  And I’m out of practice, anyways.”

It was there that Viktor leaned forward, his half-wet hair falling over his shoulders, an excited sort of desperation in his eyes.  “But you _inspired_ me, Yuuri.  Please let me learn from you, at least for this season.”

Somewhere, his robe had fallen open.  Somewhere, he’d taken Yuuri’s hand in his hands.

“Please?” Viktor said.

Yuuri swallowed.

(It felt strange for someone to want him so obviously, and so strongly.)

“Okay,” Yuuri said.  “I’ll give it a try.”

\--

“I really want to get to know you, while I’m here,” Viktor said, the morning they began training together, in the garden.  “We should be close, after all.”

This had come rather out of nowhere, so the best Yuuri could manage was, “Ah, sure…”

Viktor sat on the bench beside him with his legs drawn up to his chest like a happily impatient child.  “Where could we begin?”

“Uh… you start,” Yuuri said.  “What do you want to know, I mean?”

“Well, yes, we are coach and student, in this arrangement,” Viktor said, propping a finger on his mouth thoughtfully.  “But what shall our dynamic be?”

“Dynamic?”

“Yes.  Do you want me to treat you like a father figure, for example? Have me as your son?”

“Oh, god, god, no,” Yuuri said, waving his hands, shaking his head.

“Haha, okay, okay!” Viktor said, rocking back a little as he laughed.  “You aren’t _that_ old, not yet.  A brother, then?”

“If that’s what works for you,” Yuuri said.

Viktor’s smile lessened, growing thoughtful again.  “How about a lover?”

“Wh-what?!”  Yuuri’s little shocks were pushing him further and further down the bench.

“I _am_ devoting all of my time and attention to you at this time, after all,” Viktor continued.  “Why not in this manner?”

He was wearing a cheeky smile.

(A genuine smile?  Another kind of want?)

“Please, nothing so demanding,” Yuuri said, waving only one hand this time.  “I may be your coach, but you don’t have to devote _every_ waking moment to me.”

“What if I _want_ to, though?”

Okay, undeniably teasing; Viktor was stifling a laugh behind his smile.  Being so sure of this - Viktor’s thoughts, his intentions - gave Yuuri a strange kind of strength, and he released his awkward energy with a sigh.  “Rest is an important part of training.  You’ll have to sleep sometime.”

“Oh!  I could always sleep _with_ you!” Viktor said, clapping his hands together.  “Sharing a bed.  Wouldn’t that just be the best way to get to know each other?”

Yuuri’s sighs turned to laughter, and he got up off the bench.  “I think we should do some actual training before any of that,” he said.

(Allowing himself some doubt.)

\--

Viktor’s absence in Russia had not gone unnoticed.  Least of all by Yuri Plisetsky.

What the hell was so special about this Japanese guy that Viktor just up and left Yakov and everyone else without warning?  His skating wasn’t even that good - at least, that’s what his memory told him, thinking back on his skating and his dancing from the distance of competition.

On the journey over, Yuri watched the footage of the guy skating to Viktor’s music, over and over, as if by doing so he’d be able to see what Viktor saw.  Some hidden flash of genius in the choreography, or technique, or _something_.

He hadn’t figured it out by the time he reached Japan, which only made him more annoyed. But he’d have his answer soon enough.

No damn way he’d let Viktor have the advantage here.  If this guy was truly something special, then Yuri deserved to at least know about it, or have a part of it for himself.

\--

Yuuri acquiesced to Yuri’s demands perhaps a little too casually, when the kid showed up at the ice rink that afternoon.  Yuuri himself chalked it up to just being used to it, at that point, given Viktor’s recent antics.

Of course, Viktor just had to put a pin of reality into the whole ordeal.  “Does Yakov know you’re here?” he asked, leaning good-naturedly against the wall that bordered the rink.

“He’ll know if he has to,” Yuri grumbled.  He had his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket.

“Oh!  I see!  Then surely he won’t mind if I tell him now,” Viktor said, suddenly producing his cell phone, and smiling all too blithely.

“Wait, no-!”

Yuri reached too late - Viktor had already taken a picture and sent it.  “Ahh, that was a cute one,” Viktor said.  “I’m sure he’ll like it.”

“So… I’m not going to be your coach, then?” Yuuri, slightly-deflated, said.

Yakov’s phone call a few seconds later answered the question quite completely.  He could stand one of his veteran students studying under someone else for a year, but Yuri was not afforded the same privilege.

Viktor managed to wheedle a few days out of Yakov, enough time for Yuri to learn some choreography for the season.  Somehow, this didn’t feel like a victory for Yuri at all.

Hell, at least he was getting _something_ out of this.

\--

Yuri didn’t go back to Russia empty-handed, returning with his choreography and a costume for his upcoming short program.  None of this made him terribly happy - but, ah, so it went.

The choreography had been adapted from one of Yuuri’s daydream-skates, and originally intended for Viktor, but Viktor conceded its use once the whole business with Yakov was concluded.  Yuri would only be allowed to stay for a few more days, while Viktor had the entire rest of the season with Yuuri.  His needs could wait.

Yuuri presented the routines to them as themes of love.  “They’re arrangements of the same melody, but different moods,” he said.  “I’m calling them Philia and Storge.”

“Philia” was a light, joyous number, its melody almost seeming to sparkle as it trilled.

“Storge” by contrast was moody, passionate, aching as it soared between its heights and chasms.

“They’re different words for different kinds of love,” Yuuri explained, as he played the music for them.  “Philia is the love you have for your friends and peers.  Charity and generosity, too.  Storge, meanwhile, is a more complicated love.  It’s like love between parents and children, or masters and servants.  Love that persists despite everything, even through tough times and hate.”

Yeah, Yuri knew exactly which one he wanted.  He could make that Storge _work_.

“Viktor, I’d like for you to perform Storge, most.  If that’s all right?” Yuuri continued.  “Yuri-kun, you can have Philia.”

“ _What._ ”

“Ah,” Viktor said, lightly, “I don’t think he likes that assignment.”

“The hell I don’t!  I wanna do Storge!” Yuri said, digging the blades of his skates into the ice.  “I’m not gonna skate to that weak-ass friendship crap!”

“Mm.  The thing is, I think that Philia is just too much like what Viktor usually does…” Yuuri said.  He almost looked apologetic.  “So I want him to skate Storge instead.”

“Besides, wouldn’t it be that much more of a surprise to see Philia from you?  The Russian Tiger?” Viktor added.  “ _Nobody_ would expect it.”

“Also, your body would probably be more suited to the choreography,” said Yuuri.   “You’re lighter than Viktor is, I imagine.”

Before Yuri could shoot back, Viktor gasped.  “Yuuri, are you… calling me _fat?_ ”

“No, no, no, Viktor, that’s not what I-” Yuuri cut himself off with a sigh, resting a hand on his forehead.  “ _Viktor_.”

Viktor was pouting, ludicrously, though it was clearly targeted at Yuri at this point.  “Yuri, please, do this program justice, for I no longer can…”

“Ugh, for god’s sake - _fine_.  You don’t have to pile it on,” Yuri said.  “I’ll do Philia.”

Viktor grinned, eyes closed.  “Wonderful!”

The costumes came after dinner, which came after practice.  In setting up a space for Yuri to sleep at the inn, Yuuri went looking for a futon and instead came across a closet of his old costumes, carefully folded and gleaming in the dark.

“I don’t have any more use for these, so you’re welcome to take them, if you want,” Yuuri said, after he noticed Yuri staring, his eyes drinking in the shimmering fabric.  “I’m sure there’s something in your size.”

“I’ll… think about it,” Yuri replied.

And Yuri did think about it, waiting until he was alone in the room to inspect the costumes himself.  No animal print or flames or anything, sadly, but there were plenty of shiny pieces that caught his eye otherwise.

He would have taken his time with them, had Viktor not barged in, loudly asking what he was doing.  The end result of this was a bit of teasing, a bit of wrestling, and finally Yuuri sliding the door open, eyes narrow with denied sleep, and a terse order for them to go to bed.

Yuri took home a powder blue number, when he returned to Russia a few days later.  It had a subtle pattern of embroidery on it that reminded him of frost on windows, which was only emphasized by the sequins in the fabric.

“I think you’ll look really good in that,” Yuuri told him, before he left for the airport.  “And I think you’ll really do Philia justice.”

“Sure, whatever,” Yuri replied. 

“Good luck, Yuri-kun,” Yuuri said, in parting.

God, his smile was too damn genuine.

\--

Viktor, of course, chose a costume of his own, once all was said and done.  It was close-cut piece, with a high collar, and fabric that tumbled from cloud-white at the shoulders to shadow-black at the feet.

“Good choice,” Yuuri said, when Viktor modeled it for him.  “Very dramatic.”

“And what should I do with my hair?” Viktor said, lifting it up behind him with his hands.  “What is the most Storge?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Yuuri replied.

There was truly nothing to think about _but_ Storge, lately, and this was entirely Yuuri’s doing.  Beyond physically coaching him through the flips and loops of the program, he encouraged Viktor to visualize the theme of what he was skating, and let the results show through naturally.

“What is Storge, to you?” he asked, frequently.  “You’re going to need a full answer.”

Viktor’s initial answers were half-full, at best, if Yuuri’s responses were any indication.  Coach Yakov was Viktor’s immediate point of reference, with his tough love and dedication, but the most that ever got out of Yuuri was “Hmm, I guess.”

“What is Storge to _you_ , then?” Viktor asked, eventually.

“That’s not my question to answer,” Yuuri said.  “You have to find your own definition of Storge.”

“Yuuri, so cruel.  Taskmaster,” Viktor said, waving his hand with a dramatic lilt in his voice.

“Think outside your life,” Yuuri continued, in the same tone, with the same voice.  “Stories, movies.  Keep thinking until the answer comes to you.”

And so Viktor continued on, silently seeking his Storge, while Yuuri supported him with the strength and impartiality of a wall.

All of this was deliberate on Yuuri’s part, of course, not allowing anything through.  Viktor was not there to be coddled and hand-held to whatever greatness he thought Yuuri possessed.  He would work.

(And perhaps inspire some form of Storge in the process.  Some love of agreements and fidelity despite difficulty and indifference.)

(Easier to justify and deny anything else that developed, besides.)

\--

Viktor’s freestyle program was a later development, after Storge was tested out at a skating exhibition in Hasetsu.  It continued the vague theme of Love that seemed to be present in the music and movement Yuuri provided him.

“A friend of mine composed this, but it doesn’t have a name, yet,” he began, that particular afternoon, putting the blank CD in the boom box.  “I’d like for it to help you express your thankfulness.”

“Thankfulness?  Yuuri, Yuuri, am I coming across as ungrateful?” Viktor said.

Yuuri let nothing through, as usual.  “No, no.  This is just another form of Storge.  Nobody makes it this far without the support of others,” he explained.  “I want this piece to express that feeling of… connection.  Community.  Gratefulness.”

(Things he wish he’d known, truly known, at Viktor’s age.)

“Ahh, I see,” Viktor said.  “Well, that’s indeed a relief!  I thought you were going to make me skate some sort of tribute to _you_.”

“Please, I’m not _that_ inspiring,” Yuuri said.

(Not like Viktor cared _that_ much about him.)

(Not in such a meaningful way.)

\--

They named the completed routine “Victory on Ice!”

“Like my name, see?” Viktor said, after writing the title in English on the CD.  “And that’s been my career, after all.  All victory.”

“With the help of others,” Yuuri said.  “Don’t forget.”

Viktor smiled, flipping his hair over his shoulder.  “Of course!”

\--

Victory on Ice was magnificently received, at its debut.  Viktor’s concept of gratitude was expressed with exceptional grace, even with the stumbles, the missteps.

(Yuuri drank in that applause like wine, like water, drawn from a source he had cultivated.)

(This was his work they were celebrating, too.)

And then Viktor expressed his gratitude further by going to him when the routine was over and applause drowned out anything he could have said, glossed with sweat and effort and.

(What was a wall to a kiss, an undeniable sign of - what was this?)

“I couldn’t think of any better way to express my gratitude to _you_ ,” Viktor told him, half-straddled on Yuuri’s body.  His silver hair fell like a curtain around their faces, so close, sights for only each other.

Instinct readied a series of impartial words on technique, on practice, but rebellious warmth rose to Yuuri’s face instead.  He smiled, relaxed.

“That so?” he said.

\--

They rose and rose, together.  With each performance, Viktor’s expressions of gratitude, his Storge, increased.  There was more tenderness, more desperation in his movements.  More desire to please.

(Pleasing the audience, pleasing some unseen ideal of Storge in his mind.)

Viktor had never really said who or what he was thinking about, any more, when he skated.  So long as it was working, Yuuri didn’t bother asking.

(The answer would surely evaporate whatever thin, silver expectations of love Yuuri himself felt.)

(He would rather keep this selfish delusion, savor it, let it warm his hands and body in his moments alone.)

(The possibility that Viktor truly wanted him beyond practicality.)

Every little glance of gratitude, canceled out by every little stumble, little trip.  Mistakes of Yuuri’s doing, for not being a coach worthy of Viktor’s talents.

(Of Viktor’s belief in him.)

\--

Viktor owned a dog, a poodle, named Makkachin.  He did not go with them on their journeys, their competitions, staying with Yuuri’s family in Japan.  Yuuri had never owned a dog, and the experience was strangely wonderful, almost fulfilling, whenever they returned to that cluster of sloppy, unconditional love.

They were abroad when Makkachin got into the bean buns.  Yuuri received the phone call from his sister before the Rostelecom cup.

This wasn’t his fault.  This wasn’t anybody’s fault.  And yet, and yet, fear gripped him.

He wanted to tell Viktor.  Had to tell Viktor.  But he was too weak to do it alone.

(For doing so, saying so, alone, would have him directly responsible for Viktor’s emotional state.  For his potential failure or withdrawal in the coming competition.)

(Viktor, his fans, his country, did not deserve such disappointment at the hands of a single man.)

Then, Yakov passed him in the hallway, with Yuri Plisetsky, armored in a jacket and headphones, at his side.

(Nobody ever succeeds alone.  Hadn’t this been what he’d been trying to teach Viktor?)

(It was so easy to forget, sometimes.)

“Please, take over as Viktor’s coach for me.  Just for this competition,” Yuuri asked these unplanned allies, bowing low out of instinct and habit.  “His dog – there’s been an emergency.  I need him to stay focused, and not to worry.  Just for this competition.”

Viktor would be out of his hands.  His win here would be the work of Yakov, if there was a win.

(This selfish, maggot-nagging thought was easily-nursed, and outweighed the other side of the issue: he was doing this for Viktor.  So Viktor could win.)

(And even this felt untrue.)

“And what if his dog croaks after all?” Yuri asked, after listening in.  His eyes displayed disinterest, but there was some gleam of concern behind them.

Yuuri pressed his lips together, eyes to the floor.  “I’m hoping not.  He can’t risk being worried about something like that right now.”  His head lowered.  “ _Please_ , Yakov.”

Yuuri felt a hand on his shoulder, then.  “I’ll take care of it,” Yakov said.  “Go do what you have to do.”

The entire flight home, all Yuuri could think about was how much of a coward he was, lying by omission.  How unfair this all was to Viktor.

(But it was the best he could do for him, in this moment.  The best he was capable of.)

In the waiting room of the veterinary hospital, Yuuri watched the Rostelecom cup livestreamed on his phone.  Waiting for Viktor to perform, he felt an ache of regret, almost jealousy, as the other skaters went through their programs.  He wished he could be there to cheer them on, to do for them what he’d wish for himself.

No victory alone, et cetera, et cetera.

Makkachin was okay, in the end, the obstructions cleared from his body.  He was a floppy, vaguely miserable pile of fur in the back seat of Mari’s car, resting on Yuuri’s lap as they took him home.  He remained in Yuuri’s lap for most of the night, in fact, and didn’t stir when Yuuri’s phone buzzed with a text message from Viktor.

_Everything ok?_

Yuuri’s response was a blinking ellipsis of shame for what felt like an eternity.

_Yeah.  You were amazing tonight._

_How is Makkachin?_

The knot of Yuuri’s guilt jumped into his throat.

_What do you mean?_

_Yakov told me he was sick and you were going to look after him for me._

So Yakov was older, wiser, and now certainly less cowardly than Yuuri was.

(All qualities of a far superior coach.  The worm-thought remained agonizingly intact.)

Yuuri carefully picked himself out from under Makkachin’s head and took a picture of the sleeping dog as his response.  He couldn’t find the words.

Viktor replied, a few seconds later: _Ok but how is he???? What happened?????_

_He got into some food that was bad for him.  He is ok now.  Very tired._

Facts were easy, almost natural, here.

Viktor sent a few crying emoji faces as an initial reply, followed by words:

_Thank you for looking after him. idk if Id be able to manage on my own._

A nauseating mix of guilt and relief and affection fought for supremacy in Yuuri’s chest.  Guilt, of course, won out.

_I’m sorry I left without telling you.  It was so close to the competition._

(Yuuri wasn’t sure if this was a reason or an excuse. Probably both.)

_Its ok.  Yakov told me everything.  Dogs are a bad excuse to drop out anyways lol_

This was not at all reassuring.  Without Viktor’s face, there was nothing to _truly_ read.

(And Yuuri had learned to read him so well, over the past few months.  Every angle of his arm, every curve of his mouth.)

The words could have meant anything.

_Back to Japan tomorrow anyway. Miss you. <3_

Yuuri vaguely recognized the symbol as a heart. 

 _Miss you, too_.

The words felt like something else, to Yuuri.  Something like want, but stronger.

(But the words could have meant anything.)

\--

Yuuri waited at the baggage claim for Viktor to get back from the Rostelecom cup, all useless jitters, Makkachin on a leash at his side.

A gleam of silver, and there he was, separated from Yuuri by a glass wall.  His face was outlined with worry, his hair tangled in itself.  He hadn’t been sleeping well.

(He’d been sleeping alone.)

They ran to each other, with each other, to the automatic door, and Viktor leaped for them.  It must have been such a relief for him, to see Makkachin so lively again.

But Viktor did not go for Makkachin.

He went to Yuuri, wrapping his arms around Yuuri’s back and holding to him firmly.  His forehead was pressed into Yuuri’s shoulder; his eyes left wet impressions on the dark fabric of the coat.

“Yuuri.”  His voice was muffled by the fabric.  “Yuuri.”

Yuuri felt the urge to comfort him, to hold him back, but could not account for why this was happening in the first place.  Sentiments fell out of him half-formed.  “Hey – Viktor, it’s okay.”

“I hope I’m never this far away from you _again_ ,” Viktor said.  His arms tightened around Yuuri, and he inhaled deeply, like a sob in slow motion.

Some manner of comfort coagulated around the behavior, and Yuuri allowed his hand to cup the back of Viktor’s head, at least.  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said.  “I doubt Makkachin will be getting into any sort of trouble like this again.”

Viktor looked up at him, there, and the glass-bottle-blue of his eyes was rimmed with red.  “But what about _you?_ ” he said.

(What did Yuuri, truly, matter to him, to cause all of this?)

Comforting facts, again.  “I’m your coach until the end of the season at least, Viktor.  I won’t be going anywhere until then.”

Viktor gulp-inhaled again, and pressed his forehead to Yuuri’s shoulder as he wrapped his arms around his back, and pulled him in.  “I wish this season would never end.”

(What had Yuuri done to deserve such longing?)

“We could always come up with a longer arrangement.  If this is working for you,” Yuuri said.

“It is,” Viktor replied.  “I want to stay with you.”

Yuuri, feeling almost an easy comfort, finally held him back.

“It almost sounds like you’re proposing to me,” Yuuri said.  There was a laugh sewn into his words.

(Words that were a defense, a needle of reality, a ludicrous hope.)

Yuuri pulled away from him, and there was such a smile on his face, comfortable and easy.  He wiped one of his eyes and tucked his ragged hair behind an ear.

“Maybe I am,” he said.  He took Yuuri’s right hand, there, and kissed it on the ring finger.

(Why did reality have to mock his delusions in this way?)

“You’re going to make Makkachin feel left out,” Yuuri said.  The laughter curdled uncomfortably in his throat.  He pulled away only slightly.

Viktor let go.  His held gaze lingered, almost sadly, for a moment, before turning to Makkachin.

“Oh, my foolish little boy, misbehaving while I was away!” Viktor said, kneeling to play with his dog’s ears. “You are never leaving my _sight_ from now on.”

Yuuri watched them for a while, a strange heaviness in his chest.

(Was this what devotion felt like?)

\--

Unsurprisingly, the aftermath of the Makkachin Incident was all too present in Yuuri’s mind as time went on.  It remained even in Barcelona, and oscillated wildly in his thoughts as he tried to fight his jet lag with sleep.

Yuuri’s thoughts had a habit of turning inward when they had nothing else to do, taking his actions and the actions of those outside himself and raking them back.  In this instance, in this context, it was fixating on advice.

Really, for all the advice and support Yuuri gave others, how much of it did he truly practice, himself?  For all his agonizing over worth and wanting, how much of an indication did he give to those he wanted and found worthy?

Viktor had done so well with him over the past few months – exceedingly well.  And what had he done to make sure he knew that?

Some token words of praise, sure, but mostly criticism, and more criticism.  Neutral approval, support, responses.

(And for what?  To maintain some illusion that there were no feelings, here?)

Viktor deserved some kind of hard proof of support.  Support, at least, if it was not taken as affection.

(As what it was – whatever it was.)

\--

They had some time off before the competition in Barcelona where they didn’t have to practice, so they toured the city, shopping and sight-seeing.  It seemed like the sort of thing Viktor liked to do, which was why Yuuri suggested it.

(That, and one other reason.)

For every shop they passed or entered and browsed, options and reasons fought and danced with each other in Yuuri’s head.  This was too gaudy, that was too cheap, _that_ was too kitchy.  All of it insincere.

Then, he saw it.

A ring.  Silver, subtle, visible.  Something that could be worn while skating.

He asked Viktor to stand outside while he went in to buy something.  “A souvenir, here?” Viktor said.

“Yes.  Something like that,” Yuuri replied.

He emerged with a ring in a box, surrounded by paper, stuffed in a bag.

“What did you get?” Viktor asked him, smiling his little heart-smile, hands cheerfully set in his pockets.

“I’ll show you later,” Yuuri said.

And he did.  Halfway to the hotel, stopping at the gates of a church.  A quiet place, save for the choir that was practicing outside.

(No, Viktor surely wouldn’t come to any conclusions here.  Not if he framed this the way he wanted.)

“I wanted to give you something,” Yuuri began.  “Sure, I’ve been coaching you for the past few months, but I wanted you to know how proud I am of your accomplishments so far.”

Viktor’s nose was already flushed pink from the cold, and the color now spread to his cheeks.  “Ah?”

“I mean, with more than words,” Yuuri continued.  “I mean.  Um.  Just a gift, so you know I’m serious.”

Viktor didn’t say anything.  Snow was falling, collecting invisibly in his hair.

Yuuri reached for the bag, and his fingers pushed past the paper and into the box. 

(No, just the ring.  Just the ring.  A box might suggest too much.)

(Even if Viktor never saw that the receipt, mortifyingly, declared that this was a wedding ring.)

(Yuuri himself wouldn’t dare presume so much.)

Yuuri held the ring out on his palm.  His smile quivered between intensities of bashfulness and joy.  “You can think of it as a good luck charm, if you want,” he said.  “Every time you wear it, just think of it as me being with you.”

Viktor had his hand extended.  Gently, gloved, palm down.  His eyes didn’t leave Yuuri’s.

This, like so many other times, was an invitation.

Yuuri, like all the other times, accepted.  Pulling on one finger, than another, and another, he removed the glove from Viktor’s right hand.  His skin was warm, was smooth, and snowflakes melted on it where they fell.

Gently, so gently, Yuuri slid the ring onto the ring finger.

(Wedding rings went on left hands.  Always and only on left hands.  He was fine, he was okay.)

“I mean, you said yourself that you never wanted to be too far away from me, right…?” Yuuri said, raising his eyes.  “So even if I am, you’ll have this, at least.”

Viktor’s breath wreathed his face in large, delicate clouds, made bigger by his smile.

He started laughing.  Just a little, a breath of a chuckle, but it was laughter.

“Viktor…?”

“Funny.  It’s just funny,” he said.  “I had something of the same idea.  To keep you near me, anyway.”

He reached into the pocket of his jacket, and when he removed it, there was a golden ring in the palm of his hand.

“Bought it this morning,” he said.  “While you were asleep.  I didn’t know when else I would be able to manage.”

Yuuri’s breath was thin and hard at the back of his throat.  Everything felt unreal, too real, and his skin prickled at the dissonance of it.

“Stay with me?” Viktor said.  “While you can?”

(This couldn’t be happening.  There was no way this was happening.)

(Truly, this was how Viktor wanted him?)

And yet.

Yuuri extended his hand.

There was no glove to remove, here.  The metal of the ring was warm from Viktor’s hand.

(He’d been holding it all day, there, in his pocket.)

(Waiting for his moment, just as Yuuri had.)

“I promise, I’ll do my best to justify you keeping me on,” Viktor said.  “I want to _know_ that I make you as happy as you make me.”

Words failed, here, but touch succeeded.

They held each other’s hands at the gates of the church, saying nothing, but knowing everything they needed to.

\--

Of course, the sacred stillness of these revelations was ruptured at the dinner with friends that followed.

“It really is amazing,” Yuuri remarked, midway through the proceedings.  “A year ago, Viktor and I barely knew each other!  I don’t think we even talked at the grand prix gala last year.”

Viktor spit out his beer.

“Well, if you weren’t talking, you sure were doing _something_ , that night,” Yuri said, halfway between a smirk and a sneer.

Yuuri made a weak, confused sort of noise.

“You… honestly don’t remember?” Viktor said.

“Remember _what?_ ” said Yuuri.

“You got wasted and started dancing with everyone,” said Phichit.  “It was your last gala, after all, so you totally let loose!”

“You did a strip tease with me, too,” Chris added.

If Yuuri had nerves before giving Viktor the ring, a short time before, he was pure, manic electricity now.

“I have pictures!” Phichit continued.  “You wanna see?”

“No!  No, no, no, oh my god.”  Yuuri was waving his hands wildly.  “ _Please_ no.”

“It really wasn’t that bad,” Chris said.

“Yeah, _he_ at least stayed mostly-dressed,” Yuri said, in half-reply.  “ _You_ were in a damn speedo.”

“Ah, so I was,” Chris said.

And then, just when it couldn’t have gotten _any_ worse.

“By the way,” Chris continued, “what’s with the rings?”

It went one step beyond worse, to be _worse_ than worse, with Phichit yelling across the entire restaurant that his friends had just gotten married.

Nerves became electricity, and electricity became god damn lightning.  Yuuri could swear that his hair was standing on end at this point.

“No, no, we haven’t gotten eloped.  Don’t be silly,” Viktor said, waving his hand with its silver promise in the air.  “These are just engagement rings.”

(Just like that.)

 “Oh, wow, wow!  Congratulations!” Phichit said.  “When’s the ceremony?”

“Yuuri hasn’t decided yet,” Viktor said.  “But I’m sure he’ll tell you all once we’re sure.”

He winked at Yuuri.  With his long hair tousled by the weather, his cheeks flushed from the cold, he could not have looked more beautiful.

(Yuuri’s doubts were dead in the water.)

(All he had to do was pull them out.)

“…yeah.  As soon as we’re sure,” Yuuri said, eyes to the table, skin burning, his heart as hard and bright as a glowing coal.

And then JJ showed up and started saying something about his own wedding, and the table quickly disassembled, the moment long since over.

In the rush of it all, however, Viktor reached for Yuuri’s hand under the table, and held it, firmly, surely.  They weren’t looking at each other, but there was no need.

This was here, and this was happening.

\--

Yuuri remembered the night of the Gala with a hazy fondness, lacking in detail, but decidedly pleasant.  He had run on assumptions from there – it was an informal goodbye party for him, and everyone was wishing him well, and that was all there was to it.

Viktor remembered things a bit differently.

He remembered the man loosening his tie, removing his jacket, dancing with an energy and enthusiasm that defied his reputation.

Yuuri Katsuki was a veteran, after all.  One of the longest-competing skaters in the world, who started early and kept on, and on.  Most of the attendees of the gala had fond memories of meeting him as children – either as competitors in the juniors division, or as audience members.

He always had a kind word, an encouraging word, and never seemed to hold assumptions.  He was quiet; consistently above average, but never spectacular.  He was a constant.

And here he was gyrating wildly on a stripper pole with Christophe Giacometti.  Well, the end was near for him, or so he’d declared at the press conference earlier.  Nothing left to lose.

Viktor used to think of himself as Yuuri’s opposite.  A rising, rather than a fading, star.  He came across as flashy, flirty, charming – and entirely self-driven.  There were only five, six years of difference between them, and yet Yuuri seemed so much older, so much more mature.

He’d always admired him, to some degree.

The admiration threatened to become something more the moment Yuuri took his hand and told him, “You are going to dance with me.”

And, oh, how they had _danced_.

Yuuri was a bit shorter than him, but he led the dance, undeniably, and supported Viktor’s weight with astonishing ease.  His grip was firm and steady, seemingly the only thing left over of his usual demeanor in this state.

Fantasies in miniature spun through the moments, of pairs routines, of dances, of gentle caresses and words whispered between sheets.

He’d never felt this way before.  Not with anyone.

And when the night ended, and exhaustion began dragging its victims to their hotel rooms to sleep, Yuuri draped himself against Viktor’s chest, his head resting on Viktor’s shoulder.

“Even though I’m retiring,” he said, his voice dizzy and sweet, “I think I might like to be a coach.  I could be _your_ coach, Viktor.”

An incredible lightness filled Viktor’s chest, a lightness of possibility, of bright things and new things.

“Would you really?” he said.

“Yeah…!”  Yuuri nuzzled Viktor affectionately, his eyes closed.  “You could come to Japan.  Train with me at Hasetsu.  You could stay at my parents’ inn!  I’ll make sure you have a good time.”

Viktor could hardly breathe.

The things he might learn, from this…!

(And the chance, that delicious chance, that Yuuri might touch him so tenderly, so lovingly again.)

“Okay…!” said Viktor.  “I can be your student.”

“Yay…!”  Yuuri was half-asleep, at this point, but neither of them seemed to care.

Night ended, and morning came, and alcohol only lasted so long.

Almost like a fairy tale, the wild, sensuous Yuuri that had held Viktor the night before was gone, replaced by this meek, unassuming creature at the airport.  They took a picture together, and said goodbye, and, for several months, that was The End.

Until that night in Barcelona, Viktor had been convinced that the video of Yuuri skating to “Stay Close To Me” had been a sign.  A subtle message, calling him to Japan.

“I’m here, Viktor.  I’m waiting,” it seemed to say.  “Don’t leave me alone, here.”

And Viktor was not so cruel as to keep him from the student he desired.

\--

“Are you really serious about these rings meaning we’re – engaged?”

They had their beds pushed together in the hotel room.  Neither of them could sleep, and they were facing each other on their sides.  Their faces were inches apart.

“Only if you are,” Viktor said.  “It would keep us together, at any rate.”

Yuuri extended his hand.  Viktor’s ring caught the meager light of the city outside the window, and gold caught the corner of his vision.

“I’ll think about it,” Yuuri said.

Viktor covered Yuuri’s hand with his own, and he smiled.

“I told you.  If I stay, it will be because I earned it,” he said.  “You don’t deserve anything less.”

(All this, and Yuuri’s doubts survived.)

\--

What had Yuuri done to deserve this?

And “this” was such a joyful, such a wonderful thing, that it felt sick and unfitting to even phrase the question that way.  But that was the nature of the thing.

It was, all of it, too good to be true.  Things like this didn’t happen to people like him.

He wasn’t a magnificent skater.  He had never _been_ a magnificent skater.  He probably wasn’t even that great of a coach, either, with most of Viktor’s success coming from his own innate talent, his previous experience with Yakov in Russia.

He wasn’t an exciting person.  Just another Japanese athlete of average means, without an ounce of angst to his backstory to justify the vague misery that seemed to follow him everywhere.

He wasn’t even a _good_ person, really.  A good person wouldn’t feel vicarious pleasure from the successes of those they helped.  A good person helped people for selfless reasons, not for the shot to the ego that his connection with Viktor provided.

A good person didn’t string beautiful, beautiful people along without reciprocation, with neutral praise at best.

Least of all someone as beautiful as Viktor.

Viktor, who had the potential to go so much farther than Yuuri had ever dreamed.

Viktor, who only had to smile for someone to fall in love with him.

Viktor, who was… _Viktor._

Yuuri thought on it at length, and when he’d stepped outside of himself enough, thought on the matter enough, he realized what he was.

Viktor was a hero.  Prince Charming.  Just beginning his own story.

Yuuri was a monster.  Not a malicious one, not a vengeful one, just some dangerous obstacle that granted glory to the hero.

Well, either that, or it killed the hero.

(Good people didn’t feel insulted to think of themselves as monsters, if and when they realized such things.  Good people didn’t think of themselves as heroes when they weren’t.)

He would rather fade into obscurity than see his own nature get in the way of Viktor’s story.

After all, he wanted to see how Viktor’s story turned out.  And he couldn’t do that unless he removed himself from it.

\--

Viktor had just gotten out of the shower.  His eyes were half-closed, relaxed, as was the rest of his robe-covered body.  “Shower’s free, if you want,” he announced, wringing his hair with a towel.

Yuuri was sitting at the edge of his bed, and he wasn’t really moving.

“Yuuri?”  Viktor leaned in front of him, his face opening slightly more.  “What’s the matter?”

“…after the Grand Prix, Viktor, I want to end this.”

The silence was as stiff and painfully-yielding as ice between teeth.

“…end this?” Viktor finally said.  “What do you mean by-”

“I can’t keep being your coach,” Yuuri said.  “You deserve someone far better than me.”

“What…?  Yuuri, I don’t _want_ someone better than you,” Viktor said.  “You’re exactly what I need, right now.”

(Ah, but words were words.  There _were_ people better than him.)

Yuuri shook his head.  “I’m sorry, Viktor.  I just… I can’t keep doing this.  I don’t want to keep you captive.”

“Captive…?”  Viktor’s voice had gotten very soft.  “I’m not – but you’re not _keeping_ me from anything,” he said. There was a ghost, an attempt of a laugh in there, somewhere.

“If not now, then definitely later,” Yuuri said.  There was a burnt-bitter smile on his face, thin and crumbling.  “Viktor, I know where this is going: _nowhere_.  If you keep following me, anyway.  Burnt out at twenty-seven and retired.”

“You’re not serious…”  Viktor’s face was starting to wrinkle; his hair, unattended by a towel, was sticking to his skin like ashy seaweed.  “Yuuri, that’s where I’ll be _without_ you.”

“There’s no way to be certain,” Yuuri said.  “All I know is that nothing associated with me has gone anywhere.  And I’m fine with that, but not when it comes to you.  You have to go on to something _better_ , Viktor.”

“ _Yuuri!_ ”  His name squeezed its way out of Viktor’s throat.  He sighed, groaned, his posture collapsing.  “Even – well, even if you don’t want to be my coach, you will stay with me, right?”

Yuuri didn’t answer.  He kept his hands attached to the side of the bed, out of sight.

“Yuuri, you’ll stay _with_ me, right?”

Fat, quiet tears were welling up in Viktor’s eyes, half obscured by his wet hair.

“…I’ll think about it,” Yuuri replied.

Viktor’s breath hiccupped, and his mouth was trembling.

(The gentle glory of the night before was still fresh in Yuuri’s mind – and undeniably Viktor’s.)

Yuuri finally looked up at him.  He saw the tears, the upset on Viktor’s face.

(…why would _Viktor_ be crying?  Yuuri expected anger, not…)

He reached out his hand, and the backs of his fingers brushed some of Viktor’s hair away.

“What are you _doing…?_ ”  Viktor’s mouth was a soft snarl.

“I just… didn’t think you’d be crying,” Yuuri said.

Viktor exhaled again, sharply, and he stood, and he grabbed a hotel key before leaving the room.

Yuuri didn’t follow.

His body felt light.  Weak.  Loose.

(Was this what freedom felt like?)

\--

Viktor was in his own bed when Yuuri woke up the next morning.  Neither of them said anything to each other beyond confirmations of action.

“Off to practice?”

“Sure.”

Viktor practiced in uncharacteristic silence.  Yuuri offered nothing in the way of feedback or encouragement.

(What was the use?  He wouldn’t be Viktor’s coach for much longer, anyway.)

They were both, however, still wearing their rings.

\--

Viktor’s rendition of “Victory on Ice” that night was performed with his very life in his fists.

Gratefulness was what Yuuri said it represented.  Thankfulness for help, assistance, for those that got him this far.

Yet the person whom he was most grateful for believed himself undeserving of this.

The only way to fix this, the only way Viktor knew how, was to show the whole damn world just how grateful he was for Yuuri.  How thankful he was for Yuuri.

To have him as his coach.  To have him in his life.

(To love him, and have him know he was loved.)

There was a single stumble, in the second half, as he attempted a quad where a triple was usually planned.  But it was otherwise flawless.  The performance of a lifetime.

(All for Yuuri.)

He extended his hand, gasping for air, and his eyes focused on the only person that mattered to him in this moment.

Yuuri had his hands on his mouth.  Even so far away from Viktor, his glasses obscuring his eyes, there was a kind of love in his expression.

Viktor allowed himself to smile, seeing this, and he lifted his right hand to kiss the ring there, a substitute for what he could not do in this moment.

(Well, perhaps this, at least, would keep Yuuri in his life in some way.)

Making his way to the Kiss and Cry, Viktor felt something almost unzip inside of him, the closer he got to Yuuri.  A gradual-spilling of emotions that became harder and harder to keep in.

And then Yuuri opened his arms to Viktor, and, well, that was just it.

Viktor folded himself into Yuuri, but found that Yuuri’s embrace was the stronger one, here.  They fell together against the side of the barrier, and Yuuri leaned in.

“You really are amazing,” he said.  His glasses were askew; his hair, normally so carefully slicked-back for his public appearances, was falling in his face.

“Of course I was,” Viktor replied.  “I was thinking of you.”

(The air in Yuuri’s laughter, the disbelief cut into it, told Viktor that this battle wasn’t quite won, not just yet.)

“If I end up winning gold, it’ll be because of you,” Viktor continued.  He put his hand on Yuuri’s back, pulling him in.

“All you,” Yuuri replied.  “You earned this.”

(No, he hadn’t.  Not yet.)

(And not what he truly wanted.)

\--

The miracle came in the form of Philia.

Yuri had adopted the choreography from a short program to a freestyle, and he’d never before performed it with such fierce and righteous anger.

No, not even for fucking _JJ._

As it happened, he had run into Viktor, earlier that day, on his way to practice with Yakov. The alleged genius, Katsuki, was not with him.

“Coach Yakov!  I have something to ask you,” Viktor said.  He sounded out of breath.

“Viktor.  What is it?”

“Would you take me back, after this?”

 _…what?_   Yuri turned off his music, but kept his earbuds in.

 “Take you back?” Yakov said.  “Well, I wouldn’t say no, but weren’t you planning on coming back at the end of the season, anyway?”

“That was… the _initial_ plan, yes,” Viktor replied.  “But Yuuri and I were planning on continuing on past the season.  Until recently, anyways.”

“That meaning…?” said Yakov.

“He’s not confident in his ability to… coach me, I suppose,” Viktor said.  “And I don’t want to keep him doing something he doesn’t want to do, but…”  He sighed, saying nothing further.

“Not confident?  It’s only his first year coaching.  Of course he’s not confident,” Yakov said.

“Well, more than that,” Viktor said.  “He’s convinced he’ll end my career somehow.  Apparently, everything he works at never quite works _out_.”

Yakov scoffed.  “He can think that if he likes.  Give him time.  If he’s serious, you’re welcome back with me.”

A sad, glassy smile emerged on Viktor’s face.  “Thank you, coach,” he said.  “I just wish Yuuri would realize how much good he’s done.  Not just for me, either.”

A very, very direct stare followed. Yuri couldn’t have avoided it if he tried.

There was a knowing phrase in Viktor’s expression: _You know what I’m talking about_.

And, damn it, yes he did.

He’d only spent a few days with Katsuki, in Japan, but they’d run into each other throughout the competitive season.  Their interactions had hardly been meaningful, but his effect on Viktor was _far_ more noticeable.

He’d never seen Viktor skate like he now did.  He’d had emotional performances before, sure, but they were always filled with some kind of easily-mimed feeling – sadness, longing, lust.

What he was doing now was… _raw_.  Real.  Expressions that reached and grabbed and held at hearts and did not let go.

All Katsuki’s doing.   Sure, there was always the possibility that it was because they were – doing whatever they were doing in their private lives with each other, but somehow that felt insincere to even guess at.  This was Katsuki’s skill coming through, his ability to tune Viktor’s abilities like a fine instrument, and see them played out to their fullest potential.  Katsuki’s own technical skill had been underwhelming, but his real gifts came through with his coaching.

And this wasn’t just speculation.  A few days in Japan, and he’d learned that Katsuki was blunt to the point of rudeness in his critiques, yes, and passive-aggressive as shit, but genuinely gifted at bringing things out in people.

And you never had to guess if he was being sincere when he was praising someone.  Because he always was, and Yuri could always tell.

…and he just wanted to give _up?!_   Like _hell_ Yuri would allow that.

After all, Viktor wasn’t Katsuki’s only student, that year.  And he was going to make damn sure Katsuki _knew_ it.

If friendship was a force of light and sparkles, then Yuri’s performance was magnesium fire.  He’d never jumped so high, spun so quickly.  And he didn’t let himself fall _once_.

Spite was some damn good fuel, but it burned quickly, and left a nasty aftertaste.  In the wake of his performance, Yuri was gasping for air, hot tears in his eyes, his bones feeling like burning glass.

But for his efforts, he had a record-breaking score, and a gold medal.

Viktor, holding silver just slightly beneath him, was looking up at him with what was undeniably pride.  “You showed him,” he said, in between smiles and camera flashes.

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Yuri replied.

For good measure, though, as they were heading back to the hotel from the rink that night, he got close to Katsuki, and let him have it:

“You ever think you’re a shit coach again, and I’ll shove this gold in your _face_ ,” he hissed.  “I won because of you, asshole, and don’t you forget it.”

He walked pointedly away, after that, not needing to say anything more. 

(Silently hoping that he’d really had an effect, though.)

(Viktor before Katsuki would have been a seriously boring rival, and he didn’t want that at all in his future.)

\--

“How does it feel?” Viktor asked Yuri, as they were preparing for the gala that night.  “Knowing you’re responsible for both gold _and_ silver this year.”

Yuuri kept his head down, preoccupying himself with his shoes.

“It’s undeniable, Yuuri.  You’re amazing, and ev-er-y-one knows it, now,” Viktor continued.

Yuuri finished lacing up his shoe.  “I suppose.”

“You _suppose?_ ” Viktor said.

“Well, I mean, I’d barely coached Yuri-kun this year.  Just enough to teach him the program.”

(A mote of disappointment in Viktor’s chest.  Ah, there it was again.)

“If I really wanted to take credit, I’d ask him if he wanted me to coach him full-time next season.”

And Yuuri looked up, and he was smiling.

“ _Then_ I’ll brag.”

And Viktor smiled back at him.  “Perhaps you should ask him tonight?”

“Mm.  I’ll think about it.”  Yuuri stood up, and brushed the wrinkles out of his suit.  “I think, though, I should focus on you, for the time being.”

He extended his hand, and he laid it, gently, so gently, on Viktor’s chest.  Over his heart.

(Viktor almost didn’t want to ask.)

“You’ll stay with me, then?” Viktor said.

“For the time being,” Yuuri said, again.  “People seem to be under the impression that we’re getting married, anyways.  I think it would be pretty strange to just cut that off for no good reason.”

Viktor’s face was radiant, almost moon-bright, in that moment.

“No good reason, huh?” he said.

“Nope,” Yuuri replied.  “I mean, we want each other, don’t we?”

“You have to _ask?_ ”  Laughter broke up Viktor’s words.

Yuuri leaned forward and kissed him, there.

“No,” Yuuri said, barely pulling away; Viktor could still feel his breath on his cheek.  “Not any more.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ha ha ha, this title is so clever.
> 
> Beyond the role-swap AU going on here, I wanted to write a story where Yuuri struggled with the subtext as much as the audience did. I dearly hope I succeeded.
> 
> I hope this story brought a little joy to your day, in these times. Love wins, no matter what.


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